


The Boss Is In

by filthy_rat



Category: Pocket Monsters: Sun & Moon | Pokemon Sun & Moon Versions
Genre: DFAB reader, F/M, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-01-31 17:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12686991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/filthy_rat/pseuds/filthy_rat
Summary: You are a Team Skull Grunt, and a favorite of Boss Guzma's. 'Sometimes he just disappears,' the other Grunts tell you, the morning after he does just that. 'He always comes back,' they say, 'Just give him time.' But how much time does he need?





	1. Chapter 1

It’s been two months, and the Boss still isn’t back. A gnawing ache has long since settled in your chest, like a black hole. You miss him more every day.

‘Sometimes Guzma just leaves,’ the other Grunts tell you, on the third Monday since he’d left. ‘We don’t know where he goes, but he always comes back.’ They offer you awkward shoulder pats and pitying glances, but it doesn’t do much to assuage the knot in your stomach. You’ve only been with Team Skull for half a year, ever since Guzma’s charming but fumbling flirtations had won your heart. While the other Grunts all chatter mindlessly and practice their battling techniques in the large and empty warehouse, you sit alone, thinking back to the night he left. You remember sitting on his bed, watching him pack his duffel bag.

“Can you tell me where you’re going?” you had asked, putting on your best pout you knew he couldn’t resist.

He had turned away from the bag, an apologetic look in his eye. “...I’m sorry, sweetheart."

“...Can I come with you?”

He had averted his gaze then, grimacing down at the pair of socks in his hands, and hadn’t answered. The silence that had fallen between you was heavy and awkward. You couldn’t say that it didn’t hurt, his silent refusal, but then he was there, hand cradling the back of your neck, his expression gentle. He had kissed you then, soft and slow, savoring your taste, and he pressed you to the mattress. You had both lost yourselves in one another that night, and he said with his hands and lips and tongue all the things he couldn’t bring himself to vocalize. Not yet.

When you had awoken the next morning, he was already gone, and there was just a note on his pillow, promising he’d be back soon.

Now you’re here in Team Skull’s headquarters, and the other Grunts look to you for leadership. You aren’t sure if Guzma had told them you were in charge, or if they just knew you were Boss’s favorite and thus second in command. You even outrank Plumeria, according to them. Even so, you’re still afraid to give her any sort of orders. She terrifies you. Mostly you wander the empty warehouse, correcting battle techniques, taking care of injuries, and keeping the Grunts out of trouble.

On the seventh Monday since he left, you sit with the rest of the team in the central room of the warehouse. There’s music playing from a nearby boombox, but you’re not really listening. The Grunts chatter amicably, playing simple dice games, arm wrestling, just generally goofing off. The same old nonsense.

You almost don’t hear the squeak of sneakers until he rounds the corner and appears in the doorway.

“Hey, is this any kind of greeting for the boss man?” he calls, smirking that familiar smirk and stretching out his palm in mock annoyance. The other Grunts all exclaim in surprise and excitement and crowd around him, all talking over each other in an attempt to get answers out of him. Frozen, you stare open-mouthed.

You can barely even believe it. He’s _back._ You get to your feet and cross to where he stands, pushing your way through the throng of people until there is nothing between you and him. A part of you wants to slap him across the face, to scold him for worrying you for this long and _how could you not even send a single text, you asshole?_ But the apologetic and hopeful look in his eyes stops you.

“Finally,” is all you can manage, half sobbing the word, and you throw your arms around his neck in a tight hug.

He stiffens, a surprised look on his face at your outward display of affection when the underlings are so close. But you know he can’t resist you, especially after it’s been this long. With a slow, contented sigh, he drops his duffel bag at his feet, and his strong arms wrap themselves around your waist, tight like a vice. He buries his face against your shoulder and hair, inhaling your nearly-forgotten scent. A grin tugs at his lips, dragging his light stubble against your neck.

“Mmm, sweetheart, it’s been so long,” he says, voice muffled by your shoulder. “Been so long since I got to hold ya…”

“I missed you,” you whisper in his ear, squeezing him so tightly your arms hurt.

“I missed you, too, baby. So much…” he replies, and his voice sounds rough and desperate, like his throat is constricting around the words. He squeezes you in return, gently, and eventually lifts his head to look in your eye. That familiar softness that he reserves just for you comes over him then, and you can’t help yourself. You tilt your chin upwards and kiss him, soft and sweet. A quiet groan that you feel rather than hear escapes him, and he leans down in acquiescence, deepening the kiss, desperate for you. After so many weeks apart, his lips dizzy you like no other drug can.

A wolf whistle from a nearby Grunt, however, pulls you both back to reality. He withdraws first, forehead leaning against yours, and an impish smirk curves his lips.

“That’s right, can’t get too hot and heavy just yet, sweetheart,” he whispers, brows bouncing suggestively.

You pout. “Why not?”

“Gotta take you to dinner first, at least,” he replies, and throws a rude hand gesture to the Grunt who had whistled. Smooth as silk, he slides the arm around your shoulders, snatches up his duffel bag, and guides you from the room without a backward glance.

“Dinner, huh? I didn’t know you had a romantic side,” you say in a teasing tone.

“You teasin’ me, huh? All that time apart and you teasin’ ya boy first thing? I’m _wounded,_ baby, truly,” he says, pausing in your journey to press you against the graffitied wall nearby and ravish your neck with kisses. So much for dinner first. His hands plant themselves on the wall beside your shoulders, caging you between him and the bricks, while his mouth moves across your skin until you shiver.

“Shit, Guzma, keep doing that,” you whisper in a rough, tortured voice, clinging to his black sweatshirt. Hungrily you capture his lips in another kiss, pulling him further against you.

A low, husky chuckle escapes him, and his thigh slides between your legs. “Mm, we’ve barely even started, sweetness, and you’re all riled up already,” he whispers. His hand slips beneath your t-shirt, caressing the skin at the small of your back, desperate for contact. You can barely contain the moan of pleasure that sneaks past your lips.

“What about dinner?”

Another chuckle. “Who says I ain’t havin’ dinner right now?” he asks, and his teeth drag against your pulse point, sharp and slow. In a flash, your hands bury themselves in his fluffy white hair, nails scraping his scalp, and a hiss of breath escapes you. He really knew just how to get you wound up, even after all this time away from you. Like riding an old, familiar bike.

“Fuck, Boss,” you say, teeth clenched tight around the words.

“Ahhh, that’s what I like to hear, sweetheart,” he growls, nipping your neck again. For just a minute or two more, he steals your breath away with each kiss, each graze of his teeth, each caress of his calloused fingers against your waist. You’re like _putty_ in his hands. It has been so long.

Eventually, Guzma pauses, breathless and flushed. He flashes you a wicked smirk. “Fuck, I wish I could just fuckin’ take you right here, right now… but I’m _starved_. So you’re gonna have to be patient, baby.”

“Now who’s teasin’, Guzie!” you reply indignantly, grinning despite your frustration.

Nose wrinkling, he shoots you a disgusted grimace as he pushes away from the wall. He scoops up the duffel bag from the floor, and slips his arm around your waist.

“Don’t call me that, you know I hate that nickname.”

“Sorry, _Guzie,_ ” you reply, sticking out your tongue like a petulant child.

“Oh, you’re gettin’ spankings for that later, sweetheart,” he says threateningly, giving your waist a little squeeze.

“Promises, promises,” you reply, hip-checking him gently.

The pair of you walk down the hallway, heading towards his room. Your journey is a short one -- you’re both in a rush to get some privacy. You stop only once more, in a secluded alcove, giving in momentarily to your desires. He marks you then, teeth sharp and white against your neck, leaving a crimson blossom in the wake of his kiss. You nearly collapse from frustration when he pulls away _again._ Eventually, you both find yourselves at the room he’s claimed as his own, lock the door behind you, and begin to turn on lamps to illuminate the darkened interior. Guzma carelessly tosses the duffel bag into a nearby armchair, and shrugs out of his black sweatshirt, leaving him in just a tank top and his slouchy pants. He stretches his arms above his head, putting on a show for you.

“Maybe I should take a shower if we’re gonna go out to eat…” he says, thoughtfully looking over his reflection in the little mirror over his messy desk. His thumb rasps across the three day old stubble along his cheekbone, and he cards his fingers through his fluffy white hair. The only thing on your mind, however, is how handsome he looks. You watch him inspect his rugged appearance, filthy thoughts flooding your mind.

“Or… we could just order pizza and… watch TV until it gets here, yanno?” you say, slipping your arms around his waist from behind and gently resting your chin on his shoulder. His eyes flick to your reflection, studying your features with such intensity, you know he’s memorizing everything about you. Your heart skips a precious beat as he stares.

“Watch TV, huh?” he replies, turning his head a little to look you in the eye. A saucy, crooked smirk curves his lip.

“Yeah, just watch TV,” you say innocently, fighting to keep your light and casual tone, but the positively ravenous look in his eye is _doing things_ to you. You bite your lower lip, and his smirk curves into a wicked grin.

Guzma turns in your grasp to face you, and one of his large hands slides up your body to cradle your neck. His grip is firm but gentle -- he would _never_ hurt you. Not unless you wanted him to. You’re pliant in his hands, soft and moldable like clay.

“Just some TV time with ya boy, huh?” he whispers, tilting your head to one side to give his mouth better access to your neck. His lips are within inches of your skin, but he doesn’t connect, oh no. Not yet. With every word he speaks, they brush featherlight along your pulse point, teasing you with sensation. Reflexively, your fingers ball up the sides of his tank top. When he speaks, his voice is a low rumble of desire. “Just you… and me… all cuddled up together on that _big_ comfy bed of mine… Indulgin’ in a little mindless boob tube?”

“Uh… uh-huh,” you whisper, but your mind is focused anywhere but on his words. All your mind can focus on is the feeling of his calloused hands on your neck, on the press of his body to yours, on the soft brush of his mouth against your skin.

A husky chuckle escapes him. “Okay, sounds good!” he says, and pulls away so quickly you nearly fall over. Without looking back, he crosses the room, kicks off his white sneakers, and practically collapses onto his large bed.

“Guzma!” you exclaim, incensed, whirling on the spot to face him.

A shit-eating grin curls his lips, and he spreads his palms in a mock helpless shrug. “Hey, you wanted to watch TV, sweet pea. I’m just givin’ ya what ya asked for. Now would ya get over here already?”

Indignantly, you stand there, arms folded over your chest, trying to resist him. He leans up on one elbow, looks you in the eye, and crooks his finger once, twice, three times, in a come-hither motion. _Damn him._

Feigning annoyance, you roll your eyes, and at last relent. Toeing off your shoes, you slide into the bed alongside him, automatically folding yourself into his waiting embrace. He chuckles, grinning wide, and wraps his arm around your back. Laying back on the pillows, Guzma’s arm cages you to his side, holding you against him. With a soft, contented sigh, you bury your face in the crook of his neck, drape your arms over his midsection, and slide your thigh over his hip.

“Mmmm,” he sighs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I missed you somethin’ fierce, doll,” he whispers. As if to illustrate his point, his arm tightens around your midsection. He’ll never admit it, but these long months of being away from you were hard for him. They were hard for you, too. You want to ask where he’s been for so long, but you know he’d just avoid the question.

“You said that already.”

“A guy can repeat himself when it’s important,” he replies defensively, and he stretches an arm out to the nightstand, scoops up the remote, and turns on the wall-mounted flatscreen opposite the bed. While his fingertips trace invisible patterns on your back and upper arm, he flips idly through the channels, searching for something to watch. After a few minutes of mindless surfing, he settles on some movie you’ve both seen before -- a comedy about four idiots who get lost in the woods. It’s halfway over, but neither of you care. It’s not like you’re going to be watching it. He pillows his head on his free arm, half-lidded eyes trained on the TV, but you know he’s not really paying attention.

Your eyes aren’t even on the TV. They’re trained on his face, drinking in the details, memorizing them. Your hands slip beneath his tank top, fingertips skating over hard muscle, tracing every curve. He tenses under your touch, just a fraction, his pulse jumping beneath your palm in anticipation.

“Handsy, ain’t ya?” he says with a chuckle, still watching the TV.

“You’re fun to touch, babe,” you reply, tilting up your chin to press kisses to his jawline. Your hand pushes the thin fabric of his tank top upwards, exposing his lower stomach, giving your fingertips greater range to travel.

He chuckles. “Is that so?” he says in that same gruff rumble, turning his head just a little to look you in the eye.

You stretch up, pressing a kiss to the corner of his smirking mouth, your lips seeking his. He teases for just a moment more, tilting his head away until you whine. With another chuckle, he turns and captures your lips in a soft kiss, rolling towards you a little to get a better angle. You melt into his embrace, hands pinned between his chest and yours. A quiet moan escapes you both. God, how you missed him.

“Tell your boy what you’re after, sweetness,” he whispers in your ear, even as his hands massage your hips and lower back. “Ya gotta be specific or I ain’t gonna know.”

Another whine escapes you, your fingers curling tight in the neck of his tank top. “Guzma, why d’you have to tease me?” you whisper, tipping your chin upwards so his mouth can connect on the column of your throat.

“‘Cause ya make such _fuckin’_ gorgeous noises when I do, baby,” he replies, his fingers squeezing your backside hard enough to bruise. With a grunt, he yanks you firmly towards him, your hips flush to his, and you can feel the steadily growing hardness there. “Nnng, see what ya do to me, sweetness? Fuck, ya get me so wound up sometimes…”

“Please,” you say, half-moaning as his teeth bite down on your neck. His hand slips beneath your t-shirt and your thoughts scatter to the winds.

“Please _what?_ ” he asks, rolling you onto your back and moving atop you on elbows and knees. One of his thighs slides between yours, just shy of where you need it, teasing you with its closeness. “I don’t hear ya answerin’ me, angel,” he adds, voice already rough with desire, but he’s going to tease you until you can’t stand it. Until you _both_ are too desperate to even think properly.

“Guzma, c’mon,” you say, only whining a _little._ You hate it when he makes you beg. Well, at least, you _pretend_ to hate it. Despite the blush creeping hot across your cheeks, you’ve never been more turned on.

“Say it for me, baby,” he says, and his mouth brushes against your shoulder, slow and soft. “Lemme hear how much you want me.”

You moan, digging your fingernails into his sides as his mouth moves across your shoulder and throat. Mind scrabbling, you struggle to think of words that will appease him. You’ve never been good with the dirty talk. That was always _his_ area of expertise. “I-I… Please fuck me, Boss… _Please._ ” Face warm, you bite back another moan as he chuckles low and husky in your ear.

“Mm, I like it when you call me that... You want my cock, sweetheart?” he whispers between kisses, voice muffled by your skin.

“ _Fuck_ yes.”

“I think I can do that for ya, baby… If you ask me real nice,” he replies, his grin again dragging his slight stubble against your skin. An electric shiver races through you. The press of his hips against yours should be _illegal._

“Nngh, Boss, please! Fuck _me_ , how else I gotta say it? I wanna _come_ ,” you groan, teeth clenched as your embarrassment surges and you cover your face with your arm. But he wasn’t having any of that, oh no. Gently, he pulls your arm away and presses it to the mattress. Murmuring words of praise under his breath, he captures your lips in a kiss, transforming his praise into groans. His free hand traces your body, but he quickly becomes frustrated with your clothing.

With a growl of annoyance, he breaks the kiss, glaring down at your clothed figure. “Fuckin’... _pants…_ ” he mutters, and you can’t suppress the amused giggle that escapes you.

“You’re so cute,” you explain, apologetic beneath his playful scowl, even though he blushes redder than you do.

“I’ll show ya cute,” he replies, and his fingers hook in the elastic waistband of your sweatpants. With a reverence rarely seen by anyone but you, he guides your sweats down your hips, lips brushing soft against every inch of your skin revealed. Down your hips, across your thighs -- he doesn’t miss a spot. You squirm impatiently beneath his careful meandering, biting back desperate whines as he pulls your sweats to your ankles and finally off. They are tossed carelessly to the floor, and his mouth seeks yours again. He’s addicted to you, unable to think or act without returning to you for another taste.

“Fuck, you’re a _gorgeous_ thing,” he mutters, hooking your legs around his waist. He presses his hips against you, letting you feel the stiff outline of his cock against your inner thigh, and a loud, tortured groan escapes you.

“This isn’t _fair_ now, Boss,” you say, pouting.

“Shh, sweetheart, I got ya…” he says, pulling the tank top off to reveal his muscular torso. Your fingers curl around the Team Skull pendant he wears, tugging him closer. As your lips meet his in an unhurried kiss, your free hand skates down his abdomen, relishing in each curve of muscle you find. You follow the trail of dark curls sprinkled across his chest, down his stomach and below the waistband of his sweatpants.

When the trail leads you to cup his stiff cock through his pants, he grunts against your mouth. You stroke him, soft and teasing, and he groans your name through clenched teeth. His eyes squeeze shut and he drops his forehead to your shoulder.

“Fuck…”

“You gonna keep teasin’?” you ask, smirking up at him.

In answer, he coaxes you out of your shirt, adds it to the pile of clothing on the floor, and drops his head to trail kisses down your torso. He forges a meandering path from your collarbone, between your breasts, zig-zagging across your stomach until you squirm. When he arrives at your hips, he hesitates, flicking his eyes up to your face. Your gaze meets his, and you see reflected there your own desire. His pupils blown wide, eyes half-lidded, he smirks up at you, and hooks his fingers in the waistband of your briefs. Slowly, he guides them down your hips, and eventually, they join the other discarded clothing on the floor.

“Mm, so fuckin’ gorgeous, baby,” he whispers, pressing kisses to your inner thighs until you whine. “Look at ya, all spread and eager, just for ya boy. Fuck _me_ , I’m a lucky guy to have such a delicious thing like you,” he murmurs.

“Boss…”

“Mmm, yes, angel? Is there something you wanted?”

“Your _mouth_.”

Eyes alight with a mischievous gleam, Guzma presses a few light kisses to your inner thigh, inches short of where he _knows_ you want him. “Like that, baby?” he asks, voice innocent and light. When you groan in frustration and wriggle your hips, he chuckles, and hooks one of your knees over his shoulder.  He dips his head, tongue swiping hot and slow against your folds, and growls his appreciation as your fingers curl tight in his hair. He presses his tongue deeper into the salt and slick of you, ravenous for another taste. You arch your back, crying out, and your fingernails scrape hard against his scalp. You whisper his name like a prayer, and he increases the tempo without hesitation.

In your amorous haze, you accidentally knock his sunglasses askew. They slip from his brow and land on his nose. With a grunt of surprise, he draws back, scowling up at you through the dark lenses.

“Why are you even wearing them, Boss?” you ask, tone apologetic, but you grin regardless.

“‘Cause they look bitchin’, and I gotta keep up appearances, sweetheart,” he replies, pushing them back up to his brow and shooting you a lopsided grin.

“You look silly wearing them at night…” you say in a sing song voice.

Guzma’s expression turns wolfish. Wordlessly, he brings his lips to your slick sex yet again. His talented tongue circles your clit, drawing the sensitive little bud into his mouth and sucking until you exclaim. With a wordless, pleasured groan, he slowly eases a finger into your slick entrance, and a second joins the first without much hesitation. As he pumps them in and out, his lips and tongue never slow down, not even for a moment. He curls his fingers just so, pulling sharp gasps from your lips with ease. The pace he sets is lazy, unhurried, and _infuriating._

“Guzma, _faster,_ ” you plead, arching desperately in an attempt to urge him on, and it seems his resolve has at last broken.

“Fuck yes, come for me, come for ya boy, sweetness. Lemme hear you,” he murmurs, half-lidded eyes trained on your face. He wants to see you fall apart at his hands.

There’s no more patience for teasing. At your urging, his fingers increase pace, curling and scissoring inside you with each thrust. The entire world has converged on the tip of his tongue, and it’s not long until the pleasure begins mounting in earnest. You cry out his name, thighs tensing around his head, and your fingers tighten in his hair as your orgasm washes over you. Wordlessly, you gasp and squeal, convulsing with pleasure as he continues on, mercilessly dragging another dizzying orgasm from within you. And when it finally begins to ebb, he licks you clean with enthusiasm.

With a whine, you finally twitch away, unable to bear another second of contact. Overstimulated and sweat slicked, you lie there trying to catch your breath, a gentle undercurrent of pain throbbing between your legs. Chuckling, he crawls up the length of your body, seeking your lips with his own.

“You taste real fuckin’ good, baby,” he whispers, and as if to illustrate his point, he kisses you deep with his glistening mouth. You taste yourself on his tongue, and while he has you distracted, he sneaks a hand to your breast. His calloused fingers push the elastic of your sports bra upward, exposing you fully to him. You shiver as he pinches and rolls your nipples, one and then the other.

“Guzma… Please…”

“I could listen to you beg for my cock all damn night, angel,” he whispers, shifting to brace himself atop you. He hooks your thighs around his waist, kissing you with the passion of a man possessed. With a groan swallowed by your lips, he grinds against you, pressing his trapped cock into your inner thigh. In his fervor, he tilts his head too far downward, and the glasses again slip from his brow. They slap the bridge of his nose and a chain of surprised curses escape him. With a wordless snarl of frustration, he yanks the glasses off and practically whips them across the room before returning to you as if nothing happened.

You giggle against his lips, your hands slipping down to the waistband of his sweatpants. You push impatiently at the fabric and he obliges, nearly tripping over them in his haste to free himself from the confines of his clothing. He rejoins you a moment later in just his skivvies and that stupid heavy chain. It makes for a good handle, if nothing else. His lips meet yours in another kiss, drawing soft moans from your throat like water from a well.

Without breaking away from your entrancing kiss, he attempts to reach to the nightstand but his arm isn’t quite long enough. Instead, he ineffectively paws at the air about six inches to the left of the drawer for several seconds. With another irritated noise, he pulls away to rifle through the drawer, his cheeks turning pink as you giggle.

“Fuckin’... Where’s the cond-- _there_ they are…” he mutters to himself, pulling out a foil-wrapped condom from the box and placing it between his teeth. Grinning, he sits up on his knees, and with his eyes trained on your face, eases his boxer briefs down in the front. His stiff cock springs free at last, and he can barely contain the wordless sound of relief that escapes him. He makes a show of tearing open the condom package with his teeth, smirking down at you as he slowly rolls it over his cock.

“Mm, fuck, you got any idea how good you look right now, baby? Guy could come just from lookin’ at ya,” he whispers, licking his chapped lips as he appraises you.

“That’s no fun,” you reply, humming your approval as he braces himself on his hands and knees above you. You pull him down by the necklace to kiss him, and he inches his hips closer. His cock slips against your waiting sex, teasing you with contact, and he chuckles against your lips when you whine. Slowly, he pushes into you, hissing out a shaky groan through clenched teeth. There’s a delicious ache as his girth stretches you, and your fingers curl tight in his hair.

“Ahhh fuck, doll,” he says, his voice a low, rumbling growl, and he braces his weight on his elbows to keep from crushing you. “Fuck, you feel so… fuckin’ good…” He starts moving, thrusting slow and deep with each movement of his hips against yours. “Yeah, nah,” he chuckles, rough and husky, “I ain’t gonna last long. Not with you squeezing my cock like that…”

Your fingernails dig into his scalp as he picks up speed, moaning loud and freely. The sound of skin slapping against skin is punctuated by moans, gasps, and his half-groaned words of praise for you. It doesn’t take long for either of you. In a breathless whisper, you beg him for release, plead him to go faster, harder, and he obliges. Both of you rut against the other, blindly chasing your pleasure. All at once it crests, and you tense as another orgasm robs you of your senses. Your leg trembles uncontrollably as you gasp his name, and your fingernails dig red furrows into his muscled back, seeking an anchor.

“Just like that, baby, come for me… yeahhhh, fuck… So fuckin’ perfect,” he mumbles, and when he at last finds his release, it is with a feral _growl_. His teeth bite down on an inch of unmarked skin on your neck as his cock twitches and pulses within you.

Finally, he collapses atop with you a satisfied sigh, breathing hard. His face rests against your breast, hot breath ghosting across your skin as he recovers. A low, appreciative hum escapes you as your fingers card lazily through his hair. For a few minutes, he merely lays there, allowing you both to recuperate. His weight is heavy and warm, but not unwelcome.

“Shit,” he says, when he finally has breath enough to do so. “Fuck, I missed you,” he mumbles, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his nose between your breasts. He presses soft, appraising kisses to that little valley, grinning.

“I missed you too, baby,” you say softly. Slowly, he pushes himself up on all fours and leans in to kiss you. When his stomach growls, he chuckles sheepishly against your mouth.

“...Hungry?” he asks, withdrawing just an inch or two to look in your eyes.

“Yeah, for pizza,” you reply matter-of-factly. There’s no way you’re leaving this room tonight. Both of you could use a shower and you just kind of want to take a nap. But your stomach is growling now, too. In your haste for one another, you had both forgotten your promise of dinner first.

“No fuckin’ pineapple this time,” he replies, grimacing, and he crawls off you.“Hate pineapple on my pizza,” he adds, pulling off the condom, tying a knot in it, and depositing it in the trash. With a roll of your eyes, you wave your hand in a silent reply and fish your cell phone from your pants before burrowing beneath the blankets to escape the cool warehouse air. You start searching for local pizza places, staring intently at the screen while you chew at your lower lip.

But Guzma is watching you. He sits on the edge of the bed, gazing at you with that same soft, adoring expression he saves just for you.

“...Ya know I love you, right?”

The confession is practically whispered but it shocks you as if he’d shouted it. You look up from your phone, eyes wide, as he leans down and kisses you again, brushing the backs of his fingers against your neck and jawline.

“I know I don’t say it enough, but those weeks away really got me thinkin’ about ya, baby. All the time. Every fuckin' day.”

“Guzma…”

He chuckles and sits up, grinning that characteristic lopsided grin at you, but his eyebrows are furrowed. A subtle flush blossoms across his cheeks. “Heh, look at me, goin’ all soft and shit. The Grunts’ll be laughin’ at me come breakfast,” he says, attempting to deflect the seriousness of the moment with humor, as always.

You sit up and lean in for another kiss, relishing the sigh that escapes him as your lips meet. He always likes to talk about how lucky he is to have you, but you’re the lucky one, really. To have someone like him. When you part just an inch to breathe, his smile his smaller, hopeful, but genuine.

“Ditto, Boss,” you say, and both of you grin. “Ditto.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guzma gets into scraps regularly with some random punks, but today they brought back up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone on tumblr requested Guzma getting the shit kicked out of him and then smut. how could i say no?

“Ah, uhh… Second-Boss?”

The Grunts are never sure what to call you. Technically, you’re an Admin, the same rung in the hierarchy as Plumeria. Above the rank and file of the common Grunts, but below the Boss himself. So you hear names like ‘Second-Boss’ and ‘Admin’ and ‘That One That Tells Us What to Do Sometimes’. It’s kind of endearing, if a little annoying.

An amused smirk on your lip, you lower your book and sit up a little straighter in the well-worn armchair. What earth-shattering problem requires your attention _now?_ “Yes?”

The two Grunts exchange nervous glances, unsure of how best to explain.

“Well, uh, there’s --”

And then the front doors of the mansion burst open and everyone in the foyer jumps. A third Grunt, breathless and terrified, stands in the open doorway, staring at you with wide eyes. He leans his palms on his knees, trying to catch his breath. After a second, he straightens.

“The Boss is getting his ass kicked outside!”

That’s not what you were expecting to hear. There’s a split second of complete and utter shock, and you find yourself unable to move or process this information. The two Grunts in front of you whirl on the spot, staring at you expectantly. Clearly _this_ is the problem that requires your attention. When it becomes clear that you can’t move, they both grab your wrists and haul you out of your seat and towards the mansion’s front doors. You allow yourself to be pulled, hurrying after the Grunts and out the doors.

Another fight? What’s he done this time?

“Ah, fuck,” snarls Guzma under his breath, as he picks himself up off the pavement. For just a moment, he pauses on all fours, coughing hard, and trying to draw air into his tender lungs. Blood splatters the asphalt. The goons who were previously beating him scamper off as you and the Grunts rush to Guzma’s aid. Just some random punks, but they’re the same ones every time.

This kind of thing happens a lot lately, finding the Boss engrossed in sudden inexplicable tussles outside the mansion’s doors, but this one is one of the worst in a long while. Instead of just the normal two goons that harass him, there are three today -- two goons and a man who made Donkey Kong look like an infant. Bigger and older and _meaner_ than the other two combined _._

Guzma’s ass has been soundly kicked.

You kneel beside him, slipping a protective arm around his shoulders as he collects himself. The Grunts stand ready at your side as you gingerly help Guzma to his feet. His assaulters watch on from across the street. When he’s finally standing, one arm draped heavily around your shoulders, you survey the damage he’s sustained. A busted lip, a bleeding nose, and a bruised cheek, as well as several scrapes from hitting the pavement so many times. His sunglasses are cracked and askew. And there’s no telling what kind of unseen damage there is beneath his clothes. Your heart lurches.

Why does he keep doing this?

“Fuckin’... cowards,” he mutters, and glowers over his shoulder at the punks still watching. “Had to go and get…” his voice sharply pitches upward in volume as he speaks, “Back up from their _fuckin’_ daddy --!” At the tail end of his sentence, he’s shouting over his shoulder towards the punks dawdling across the street. You can see all three of them visibly bristle, and two have to physically restrain the third. Guzma never did know when to quit. A low chuckle drags from his throat like skin across rough cement, harsh and humorless. He spits a mouthful of blood onto the ground, and wipes his chin with the back of his hand.

The three Grunts that stand beside you look nervously from one to another. Time to make a quick exit.

“C’mon, Boss, let’s get you cleaned up,” you say quietly. You give his midsection a gentle tug, trying to guide him back to the mansion. Momentarily, he resists your pull, still staring with wide, malicious eyes over his shoulder at the goons and their “dad.”

“Try that shit again, ya little fucks, and I’ll -- !”

You cut him off with a particularly sharp tug, and an audible wince escapes him as you squeeze his tender ribs. “Shut _up_ , Boss.” Shit, he’s going to get himself in real trouble some day. And you don’t know if you’ll be there to save his ass every time. The idea that one day, he’ll bite off more than he can chew and get really injured has your heart turning to ice in your chest.

With some firm yet gentle guidance, you bring him back to your room in the mansion, and urge him to sit on the edge of your bed. Obedient (or maybe just exhausted), he perches on the side of your mattress, elbows resting on his knees, staring blankly at the floor. The blood on his face has dried now, smeared grotesquely across his mouth and chin, and the bruise on his cheek has turned purple. He’s a mess.

Hastily, you retrieve your first aid kit and a warm, wet washcloth from your bathroom, and return to him. You curl your fingers beneath his chin, gently tilting it upwards to better see his battered face. Even though he allows it, he doesn’t meet your gaze. Brows furrowed and jaw tightly set, he stubbornly glares at the space just to the left of your head. That’s fine. If he wants to be a big baby about it, you’re just going to let him sulk. Nursing his bruised ego _and_ his bruised face. For several minutes, you clean him off in silence, gingerly wiping at the dried blood.

Dark and scary thoughts cloud your mind as you work. If you hadn’t gotten there in time, there’s no telling what those goons might’ve done to him. And he’s still recovering from the last scrap he was in. Eventually, you can’t take the silence anymore. In a quiet voice, you speak up.

“Why do you keep doin’ this to me?”

Predictably, he doesn’t answer. He won’t even look at you. A muscle in his jaw jumps. Guzma’s nothing if not a stubborn fuck, but this sudden withdrawal sends pain spiking white-hot through your heart. Your throat constricts sharply, but you push out the words, raw and half-choked.

“You wanna end up with a shiv in your fuckin’ ribs, Boss? I ain’t always gonna be there to stop them from beating you into a pulp, yanno. Maybe next time it’ll be four of ‘em. You like those odds?”

More silence. His hands curl into white-knuckled fists at his sides, and his breathing becomes shallow and erratic. Frustrated beyond description by this entire situation, you lower your washcloth, grab his chin _hard_ , and force his gaze to meet yours.

“What fuckin’ gives?” he snaps, roughly shoving away your hand and saddling you with venomous glare.

“Then talk, ya shithead!” you reply sharply, pushing _hard_ on his shoulder. He winces a little. “I’m tryin’ to help and you’re givin’ me the silent treatment! What’s goin’ on?”

“They was... sayin’ shit,” he replies evasively, and resumes averting his gaze from yours with his shoulders hunched. His shoelaces become suddenly fascinating. You put your fists on your hips and bend at the waist to catch his gaze, but he’s stubbornly avoiding you.

“What _kind_ of shit, Guzma? ‘Cause if they’re just throwin’ shade at your stupid glasses or this fuckin’ house, then --”

“They was sayin’ shit about _you_ , okay?” he exclaims and bolts upright. You jerk back in shock. Now he’s making eye contact, furious. With teeth gritted and nose wrinkled, he glowers at you from beneath those deeply furrowed brows. The very picture of rage and disgust. “Every _fuckin’_ day those chodes was out there, sayin’ stuff about you to my face. Callin’ you the Boss’s _whore_ and other nasty shit. Sayin’...” He takes a deep breath, and his anger melts away slow like the last snow of winter, replaced instead by fear. “Sayin’ they was gonna _do shit_ to you. And... I-I fuckin’ snapped.”

“Guz…”

A ragged sigh drags from his throat and he pulls the broken sunglasses down from his forehead. Averting his gaze again, his free hand cards through his messy hair, and he anxiously scrubs his fingernails against the short black stubble at the back of his head. “And I didn’t wanna say nothin’ ‘cause… “Cause I didn’t want you to be _scared_ . I’m s’posed to _protect_ you and --”

Your heart gives another painful lurch as he falls silent with a frustrated groan and buries his face in his hands. Guilt rises in your chest like a wave, rushing around your ears. All this time, he’s been taking beatings _for you._ To defend you against meaningless words. And he’s kept it a secret to protect your feelings. Gently, you push away his hands, cup his chin, and tilt it up until his gaze meets yours. His arms automatically wrap around your waist, drawing you between his knees. With a sigh, he buries his face into your chest, and you can feel him tremble slightly in your arms. Is he… crying?

“ _Baby_ ,” you say softly, half-sighing the word in tender exasperation, your fingers combing slowly through his hair. You lean down, press a kiss to the crown of his head, bury your nose into those white locks you adore. “Guzma, you don’t... You don’t gotta do this for me. They’re just some punks, they’re stupid.”

“I don’t want anythin’ to happen to you,” he says, voice muffled and tremulous. His arms squeeze you tight around the middle, and a quiet half-choked sob escapes him. It’s rare to see him so vulnerable and open like this, and it makes your heart ache.

“Nothin’s gonna happen to me,” you say softly into his hair. “I can take care of myself, baby, okay? You gotta stop gettin’ hurt ‘cause of me. Please.” You withdraw a little to look him in the eye, gently pulling his face away from your chest.

Cheeks wet with tears, he sniffles, looking up at you with such a forlorn expression you can barely stand it. You untie the bandana around your neck and use it to wipe his cheeks, gingerly skirting around the bruise. Your hand tenderly cups his cheek, thumb brushing feather-light across his cheek bone. With a sigh, he turns his head, nuzzling against your hand, and presses a kiss to your palm.

“I’m sorry,” he says in a quiet voice.

“Don’t be. Just please… I-I can’t keep _seein’_ you like this, all bruised and bloody and hurtin’,” you say, leaning your forehead against his. “It breaks my heart.”

Breath catching in his throat, he tilts his chin up, and captures your lips in a soft kiss, conveying all the things he can’t bring himself to say aloud. Not yet. You don’t mind. A quiet, contented sigh pulls from your chest, and he echoes you eagerly, tilting his head to one side to deepen the kiss. His injuries forgotten, Guzma draws you closer, until his chest presses against yours. When his mouth opens, inviting and warm, you draw his bottom lip between your teeth, nibbling softly until he groans. Desperate for more of him, you lean in, lifting your knee and resting it on the mattress beside him. His hand slides slow and gentle across your thigh, and he pulls back with a little smirk.

“Have a seat, angel,” he says softly, pulling you into his lap fully. His hands automatically move to your backside and waist, squeezing and groping until you whine.

“Nnn, Guzma… you’re hurt.”

“Mmm, you make me feel like a thousand bucks, though, sweetness,” he replies, greedily seeking your neck with his lips. Sighing, he mouths soft, warm kisses down to your shoulder, and his teeth drag sharp and slow and oh, so deliciously against your skin. A small gasp escapes you, and he chuckles against your shoulder. “That feel good, baby?”

Good? Good is the _smallest_ word to describe how it feels. All your scattered mind can manage is an eloquent _uh-huh_ before he bites down again, sharper this time, dragging a quiet hiss from your lips. He sucks _hard_ on your skin, surely leaving a mark that will be difficult to cover up the next morning. But you can’t bring yourself to care. All you want now is _more --_ his lips, his touch, his steadily growing hardness -- it’s all so much.

“Hhhn… C’mon, Guzma…”

“Mm, mine, all mine..." he whispers, ignoring your whines. “I like that word… _mine._ _My_ sweetheart, straddling _my_ lap… Moaning _my_ name. Begging for _my_ cock… Mmmm.” A low, husky chuckle escapes him, muffled by your neck, and he slips a hand beneath the waistband of your shorts. The callouses of his fingers catch on the sensitive skin of your backside as he squeezes, and a soft sound escapes you.

“Boss… please…”

“We’ve been through this before, baby,” he says, coiling his arm around your waist and brushing his lips against the column of your throat. “You gotta _tell me_ … C’mon, lemme hear you… Say those dirty, _naughty_ things that make you blush.”

Cheeks red and eyes shut tightly, you focus on the feel of his mouth moving slow and hot across your skin. In a quiet, tremulous voice, you speak the words he wants to hear. “I need you. Need you to fuck me, Boss, please. _Please._ ”

“Mm, you want my cock, sweetheart?”

Wordlessly, you nod your head.

“Say it.”

He always likes to play this game. Maybe it’s because he just likes how your cheeks turn red, or maybe he just loves hearing you talk, but every time the pair of you meet like this, he insists on it. A frustrated noise leaves you, and he chuckles, but things don’t progress any further. And when it comes to this, he is a patient man.

“I… want it. Your cock, please. Fuck me, Guz, _please_ fill me up,” you beg, in a voice barely above a whisper, but it feels as if you shouted it. Your cheeks grow hot, and you can’t bear to open your eyes for fear of looking at him, but he chuckles huskily against your collarbone.

“Mm, that’s my good little pet,” he whispers. “I’m gonna take real good care of you, angel. Gonna have you screamin’ my name…” With the intensity of a man possessed, he pushes up your tank top, exposing more of your skin, and continues his merciless onslaught with his lips and teeth and tongue. As he distracts you with soft kisses and softer bites, his hands move to the clasp of your bra, and with a few twitches of his clever fingers, he unhooks it. As it falls loose, he impatiently yanks it away, mouth descending hot and wet on your nipple and then its twin.

Your fingers bury themselves in his hair, seek some kind of anchor to keep you from floating away in ecstasy. For a few minutes, he torments you, lavishing attention upon your breasts until you writhe in his arms. While he pulls gasps and moans and whines from your lips, his eyes are trained on your face, drinking in your reactions to each touch.

“Please!” you gasp, arching against him with an unmatched urgency. “No more teasin’, Guz…”

At first you think your pleas are going unheard. Murmuring praises for you between touches of his mouth, he continues his assault until you squeak and twitch from overstimulation, fingers curled tight in his hair. At long last, he twists, turning you and depositing you gently on the bed on your back. As he hovers above you on hands and knees, a gentle vulnerability comes across his face -- a tenderness to his eyes that he reserves just for you. Never before has someone looked at you like this, like you’re their _whole world_. He dips his head to kiss you, soft and sweet and slow, and your hands lazily disappear beneath his tank top. The pair of you could waste hours this way -- soft touches and kisses -- gentle exploration and mute appreciation for the other.

Clothing is shed at a leisurely pace, each piece revealing more skin to his greedy mouth and hands. When you’re completely divested of your clothing, save for your panties, he sits back on his heels to look you over, a hungry, wolfish gleam in his eyes. Your cheeks grow warm beneath his sultry, half-lidded gaze.

“Mm, baby, you look so good, I might just take a bite outta you,” he says in that husky half-growl that makes you shiver, and he bites his lower lip. “In fact…” Grinning wickedly, he scoots backward, nudging your thighs apart as he goes. Eyes trained on your face, he hooks one of your knees over his shoulder, fingers squeezing and kneading the soft swell of your thighs. His mouth trails kisses and gentle nips across your innermost skin, steadily moving closer to where you need it most, but he’s content to tease you within an inch of sanity.

“Guzma, _please,_ I can’t take much more…”

He chuckles. “Impatient, ain’t ya?” Slowly, he brushes his fingertip against your waiting heat, dragging a needy whine from your throat. “Easy, baby, I got you. Oh, _fuck._ ” Another husky chuckle rumbles past his lips as he pulls aside the crotch of your panties with his thumb. “You’re _soaked._ All this for me, sweetness? Mmm, I’m _flattered."_ With a low, quiet growl, his eager mouth overlaps your waiting sex, and a single swipe of his tongue has you crying out for more.

Gaze unwavering from your face, Guzma drives your pleasure headlong towards the abyss with his talented lips and tongue, mirroring your groans with his own. Your fingers cling tight to his hair as you gasp and writhe, panting his name like a mantra. With an arm curled around your hips to secure you to the mattress, he winds you tighter and tighter, relentless in his deliverance of your pleasure. After several minutes, he lifts his head, smirking up at you with glistening lips.

He meets your gaze, and his tongue drags across those lips, tasting that slickness with a wolfish gleam to his eye. Fuck, you can barely stand it. He’s so goddamn smug.

“Heh… you’re makin’ a _mess_ , baby. Let’s get these off ya...” he says with a little chuckle, and wastes no time in yanking down your panties. Gently, he teases one fingertip slow and light along your slick folds, reveling in your twitching and gasping. When he pushes the digit into you slowly, a soft appreciative sound escapes him, and his eyes flick to your face. “Mmm, slides right in there,” he murmurs, and then a second finger joins the first. He pumps slow at first, curling his fingers against your inner walls until you buck against his hand. And then the final instrument, his mouth, rejoins the orchestra he’s conducting between your legs, and you nearly come undone on the spot.

With a sharp, ragged gasp, you arch upwards as his fingers pick up speed, and he lifts his head to murmur praise for you, begging to hear that sweet voice of yours as you reach nirvana. He always knows just how to touch you, just what to say, _just_ how to get you to sing.

With his name on your lips, your orgasm washes over you like the rising tide. You ride the waves, crying out his name just like he promised you would. A distant part of you knows that the Grunts are just outside his door, listening intently, but you can’t give a shit. Hell, part of you _likes_ that, and it only spurs your pleasure forward.

But he doesn’t stop there, _oh no._

Greedy greedy Guzma continues on, groaning eagerly against your slickness as he quickly brings you another orgasm. An overstimulated but ecstatic squeak escapes you as your hips arch violently upwards, and with a chuckle, he finally pulls away. Gulping air like you’re drowning, you collapse onto the sheets and lie there, trying to will your pulse to slow.

“Mm, you make the best sounds, baby,” he says with that same shit-eating grin curving his lip. He wipes his glistening mouth on the sleeve of his hooded jacket, and shrugs out of it. As he crawls up the length of your body, he presses soft kisses to your stomach, between your breasts, your collar bone. With an appreciate hum, he settles at your side, draping an arm over your bare stomach.

“You’re… an asshole,” you say breathlessly, and he laughs in your ear.

“Ah, you know ya love me,” he replies, kissing your shoulder.

Your heart flutters. This is as close as he’s come to saying it so plainly before, and he seems to realize it, too. With a soft sigh, his hand finds yours, fingers tangling together as he nuzzles against the nape of your neck. For just a few moments, you lay like this in peaceful quiet, reveling in the feel of his hand caressing your stomach and hips, his lips against your neck and shoulder, his heartbeat steady at your back. Seconds pass in comfortable silence.

Eventually, he shifts onto all fours above you and settles his hips between your thighs. Your lips meet, unhurried, savoring the taste of the other, but your hands are greedy for more. Without breaking the kiss, you push impatiently at the fabric of his tank top, and he chuckles against your mouth.

“Mm, so eager,” he says, smirking down at you.

“Ain’t fair that I’m the only one naked, Boss…”

“Yeah, aight, you got a point.” With that same wolfish, hungry gleam in his eyes, he sits back on his heels, and tugs the tank top over his head. It joins your clothing on the floor, and you finally get a good look at him. A shocked gasp escapes your lips before you can stop it.

“Shit, _Guzma_ ,” you say in a stricken voice, and you sit up to run your fingertips across the purple bruises blossomed across his ribs and chest and shoulder. They’re not big, but they are dark. Fresh. You press gently at the largest, and he winces away from your touch. “You need a doctor.”

“What’s some doctor gonna do about bruises? It don’t even hurt anymore, baby, I promise,” he replies, gently pushing you back down onto the mattress. He kisses you, soft but insistent, one hand pinning your wrists above your head. “I wanna make ya feel good, sweetheart,” he says between kisses, hooking one of your legs around his hips. With a little moan, he grinds himself against you, gyrating that hardness into your inner thigh. “Just… just a little more.”

The press of his trapped cock against your thigh sends a pleasurable shiver racing down your spine, and you know you can’t resist him. You moan, head tilting to one side to grant him access. Echoing your moan with one of his own, he drags his teeth along your pulse point, teasing you with the sharpness of his kiss. Another mark, another bite, another kiss -- his mouth moves across your shoulders and throat with purpose, leaving a searing trail in its wake.

Reluctantly, he pulls away for just a moment to fish through the nightstand drawer for a condom. The condom held between his lips, Guzma tugs down the elastic waistband of his sweatpants with a muffled groan, and his stiff cock finally springs free. While he smirks down at you, he makes a show of ripping open the foil wrapper with his teeth, his hungry gaze raking across your nudity as he rolls it on. He leans down to capture your lips in another kiss, shifting deeper between your legs.

“You’re so fuckin’ gorgeous, sweetheart,” he says quietly in your ear. There’s a momentary awkwardness as he fumbles, slipping against your folds, before he slides home, slow and deliberate and _oh,_ so good. “Oh, _fuck…_ "

You moan aloud as he bottoms out within you, relishing that delicious ache as you stretch around his girth. For just a moment, the pair of you are still, cherishing the feel of the other. The pace he sets is languid, almost lazy -- as if he wants it to last as long as he can. You murmur breathless praise between his desperate kisses, fingers caressing his face, his neck, his shoulders. The technique is inelegant and rough, like him, but it does more than enough for the both of you. All too quickly, the edge of pleasure rushes up to greet you like a neon sign, bright and unmistakable. You can barely cry out his name in warning, arching upwards in desperate search of release.

“That’s it, baby,” he says, groaning raggedly around the words as you rake your fingernails down his back. His own end is near, judging from the distinct growl to his voice now. “Fuck, you feel _so fuckin’_ good…”

With a shuddering groan, he comes undone at long last, hips stuttering and twitching against yours as he throbs within you. When the pulses of his cock finally cease, he slumps against you, breathing hard. You lie together in a sweaty, satisfied heap, allowing your skin to cool and your pulses to return to normal. A quiet, contented hum escapes him.

“You okay?” you ask, as he buries his nose against your neck and shoulder. Your fingers move automatically to his hair, toying with the fluffy white locks. Guzma makes a soft, contented noise against your skin.

“I’m aight… I promise. You?”

“I’m always good with you on top of me, baby,” you reply, smirking. He laughs, tickling your skin with his warm breath. It always feels good to make him laugh genuinely -- his laughter is usually harsher, humorless. Something warm and fluttering stirs in your chest whenever he laughs, _really_ laughs, and it makes your whole body feel like it’s floating. A quiet sigh escapes you as you press a soft kiss to the crown of his head. What you wouldn’t give to sit here like this forever.

But even good shit doesn’t last forever.

Eventually, the pair of you disentangle from one another, reluctantly separating for cleanup. A shower is discussed but ultimately put off till tomorrow -- all you want now is a nap. Now clean and yawning hard, Guzma returns to the bed and your waiting embrace, practically collapsing on top of you. The bed creaks in protest.

“Easy, Boss!”

“Mmm, I’ll buy you a new bed,” he mumbles, burying his nose against your throat and groping blindly for the comforter. A little giggle bubbles from your lips, and you feel him smile sleepily. What a goof. Once his hand finds the blanket, he yanks it upwards, cocooning the pair of you in warmth and comfort. It seems he’s ready to fall asleep any moment, the past unpleasantness forgotten, but your mind is alive with troubling thoughts.

“...No more fighting,” you say softly into his hair, and he grumbles.

“What if they say more shit about you?” he asks, in a muffled voice.

“I don’t care what those idiots say. Just. Walk away, baby, please.”

He shifts uncomfortably, his arms tightening around your waist, and blows out a resigned, irritated sigh. “ _Fine._ ”

“Thank you…” And you hesitate, for just a second, the words you so desperately want to say clinging to the tip of your tongue. A deep breath to calm your nerves. “I love you.”

He tenses. _Oh, shit._

Slowly, Guzma lifts his head from your chest and looks you in the eye. His expression is entirely unreadable, and for one horrifying moment, you think he’s going to get up and leave. Instead, he leans in, he kisses you -- softer and heart-achingly sweeter than he ever has before. It feels like his whole soul is poured into this one kiss. It sweeps through you like a wave, and leaves you trembling. When he withdraws, just a fraction of an inch to look you in the eye, he’s smiling that lopsided smile, no trace of fear or hesitation.

“I love you, too.”


End file.
